Hurricane
by Tarafina
Summary: When he kisses her, it's not soft. Not at first.


**title**: hurricane  
><strong>category<strong>: arrow  
><strong>genre<strong>: romance  
><strong>ship<strong>: felicity/oliver  
><strong>rating<strong>: pg-13  
><strong>inspiration<strong>: gif (source)  
><strong>word count<strong>: 1,250  
><strong>summary<strong>: When he kisses hers, it's not soft. Not at first.

**_hurricane_**  
>-11-

It takes a lot for him to act. The man he was before the island was rash. He did things without thinking them through, without any consideration for consequences. The man he is now knows nothing _but _consequences. He plans and maneuvers and manipulates things, like pieces on a chess board. But he can't with her. He doesn't even want to. There are days when things would be easier for him if she would just fall into line, just go where he needs, do what he says, acts when he orders. But she wouldn't be her if she did. And he wouldn't be him if he didn't have her. The her that fights back, talks back, stands up, stands out.

So when they're standing there, an argument fading into the past as quickly as it was present, he finds her within reach, he finds his lungs full of too much air, expanding and deflating in a hurry as he pants. He stares down at her, shaking with the exertion of arguing with her, the rush of _something _that he always gets when he's got a fiery, angry Felicity Smoak in his face, calling him on his bullshit instead of letting it slide. And he can't remember the 'why.' He can't remember why he was _so sure _that he was right. But he knows the likelihood of her being wrong is much slimmer than what his ebbing self-righteous fury might say. And that attraction, that need for her, flares to life, biting at every inch of his skin, pushing and pulling at pieces of him that he thought were too broken to fit together anymore.

Her cheeks are flushed and some of her hair has come loose from her ponytail and she's staring up at him, bristling with anger, ready to defend her thoughts, her side of things, ready to fight him until he retreats. And he will. He always does. Sometimes he has a point, sometimes he has a reason, but it's not just that he's wrong that has her fighting, it's usually that he keeps that reason to himself and just expects her to let him. Felicity won't. She pushes for him to 'use his words' and communicate what's going on in his 'thick head.' And for once he thinks actions might speak louder than words.

So he stops thinking, stops wondering how this might end. Because it could be bloody, it could be heartbreaking, it could completely destroy everything they've built, but it might also rebuild him, it might make some of this existence so much better than it's been. There are days that he scrapes by. Days that the pressures of his life weigh him down too much. Days that the ghosts are too loud, too present, and he can't escape them. He can't get away from the echo of Tommy's laugh or the memory of Shado's smile, he can still feel Slade's hand on his shoulder, holding him back, his gruff voice calling him 'kid.' And those people, those losses are chained to him, tattooed beneath his skin like scars that never healed, invisible but deep enough to always cut. And then Felicity is there, pulling him back, reminding him of the here and now. A steady hand finding his, drawing him forward, keeping him at her side, showing him there's a future, he just has to reach for it.

And this is him doing that. His hand on her hip, pulling her forward until their chests are pressed flat together, a whoosh of breath leaving her parted lips. The furrow of her brow begins to smooth out and she swallows, her tongue swiping over her bubble gum pink lip unconsciously, of an anticipation she feels just as completely. And he stares down at her, this woman who has been a pillar since the moment he met her, holding up him and this city and their whole team. And he loves her. _God, he loves her_…

When her eyes widen, he knows he's said it, those words that have been biting at the edges of his frayed heart for so long. He doesn't regret it. Doesn't regret that he didn't take the time to make some elaborate gesture before he finally puts it out there. She wouldn't want that, and it's not him. It's not them. They are the quiet moments in the foundry, the pressure of a hand on her shoulder or gripping his forearm. They are honesty and support and partnership.

"Oliver?" she asks, her voice a breathless whisper, full of confusion and hope, so much hope.

When he kisses her, it's not soft. Not at first. It's two mouths meeting in the eye of a storm, because that's who he is at his heart. He is a hurricane of emotion and guilt and regret, and then her hands are framing his face, her fingers are tip-toeing down his hair and sliding down his neck before they flare out over his shoulders and squeeze. Not to push him away or pull him closer, just to ground him. And he draws back a little, he relents. He softens his mouth against hers, his lips smoothing, passing, reaching and finding. Their lips piece together like parts finding their fit. Her nose brushes his and he knows if he opens his eyes, he'll see the freckles on the bridge. He'll see her lashes fanned out over her cheeks.

He takes his time, lingering, feeling her tongue sweep over his bottom lip and flick before her teeth gently bite into it and tug. She's gentle, curious, testing what he'll let happen before the barriers come back and he makes his excuses or shuts her out or retreats. Only he doesn't want to. So he leans forward, one hand seeping up the curve of her back, keeping her close, while the other curves around her slender neck, her pulse thrumming quickly under his thumb, and he cups her jaw, his fingers in her hair and behind her ear, and he tips her chin up as he separates not even an inch, just enough for breath to pass between their mouths as she sucks in air and opens her eyes.

He stares at her, her bottom lip tripping off his, and he sees a different kind of storm in her eyes. Hope and relief and blue skies as the clouds break up. Cool water lapping at the sand, waves tripping over each other to draw closer, to reach for land and the survivor that stands singular, waiting, shipwrecked in the aftermath of a hurricane that's finally beginning to pass.

When she says his name this time, there is no question, there is certainty. "Oliver." Like she's found him, reached him, and there is no going back.

He answers with the same, "_Felicity_."

And she smiles, that beautiful, encouraging, loving smile of hers. So he kisses her again, because he can, and he will, for a very long time.

Hurricanes come and go, he's not sure he'll ever be completely free of them, but there is a buoy that never sinks, a sky that always brightens, and a hand that pulls him from the worst of it every time. He never planned for her, he can't move her unless she wants to be moved, but he doesn't regret that. He thanks whatever power brought her into his life and convinced her not to go. She is his anchor; he holds on with everything he has and hopes she never lets go.

{**end**.}

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><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Thoughts? Reviews are my lifeblood, darlings!


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